


That's not a Bay Leaf

by ssleif



Category: Leverage
Genre: Eliot Spencer's Cooking, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Slice of Life, Winter fic, this is just a wee cozy fic y'all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-13 19:21:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28533582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssleif/pseuds/ssleif
Summary: The best way to keep Eliot out of the fight is to keep the fight far, far away from him. A little vacation was just the answer.
Relationships: Alec Hardison/Eliot Spencer, Alec Hardison/Parker/Eliot Spencer
Comments: 5
Kudos: 53
Collections: 2020 Leverage Secret Santa Exchange





	That's not a Bay Leaf

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DarkwingDukat (pushingcrazies)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pushingcrazies/gifts).



> This is a Winter gift for AJ/ darkwingdukat for the 2020 Leverage Secret Santa Exchange
> 
> I went with ot3, outdoorsy stuff, fluff, Eliot being a tiny bit hurt, and neurodivergent Parker. I sort of figure they’re all an item here, but it can be read a few ways and I chose to leave it open spec re Parker’s sexuality. Hopefully it works for you! hope you are having a good holiday and new year! stay cozy!

The snow crunched and slid a little, under Eliot’s boot, as he stubbornly clomped across the porch with a pair of duffel bags he wasn’t supposed to be carrying.

Damnit, it was stupid. Who knew better than him, what his body could take, and what was too much? (a voice in the back of his head reminded him that, in fact, Hardison and Parker obviously DID trust him to decide for himself, which was why he’d been allowed to bring the duffels in at all… but he resolutely ignored this point, in favor of being grumpy)

He struggled through the cabin’s front door, markedly less graceful than usual, but paused just inside. He _wanted_ to stomp his feet, shake off the snow, before dragging them over the mat, but he _did_ know better than to do that. Gingerly, he did his best to give both feet a good drag, (without jostling the left one in its walking boot too much) before carefully crossing the slick wood flooring and throw rugs over to the kitchen. 

One duffel went in here: dry goods, durable things, some vegetables, meat further sealed in cooler bags. (he hadn’t said a word when Hardison deftly and quietly swooped in and retrieved all the eggs) He slid it into a corner, out of the way, and then looked around for a likely spot to stick his personal bag.

The cabin was on two levels. First was this lower floor, kitchen open onto a den complete with television, fireplace, coffee tables, and several comfortable-looking seating options separated by a large space of floor from a dining table with four chairs and a bench. Closed doors at the end where he stood likely led to pantry, laundry, maybe a bathroom. At the other end, a pair of doors were both partially open to show bedrooms. 

Near to the front door, a staircase began, leading up to the second partial floor. Eliot couldn’t see past the railing from this angle, but he guessed bedroom, and perhaps an additional bathroom. Across front the front door, all the way across the living space, the far wall seemed to be made more of window than wall, with a set of french doors leading out onto the porch… and a gorgeous view of the mountainside.

The heat-loss from the high ceilings and windows was probably worth it, just for that view.

Still scowling however, now at the thought of taking all those stairs in his obnoxious boot, Eliot started across to one of the lower bedrooms, to ditch the other bag. By the time he did that, his foot was already aching again with the activity, and exertion was warming him enough that he also ditched his jacket, hanging it on a peg on the bedroom wall, near the door.

Back in the living space, Parker was already headed up the stairs, and making clear eyes at the railing of the lofted space, likely evaluating it’s strength as an anchor point… and Hardison already had an impressive array of electronic equipment spread across the table.

Elliot went to start a fire.

-

It had happened just like that, a slight creak that started his mind racing, evaluating stress point, triaging occupants… and then the world was caving in.

Well, a support beam, illegally and unethically installed and part of the ceiling caved in.

Eliot managed to shove both the client and Hardison out from under it, and _nearly_ cleared the mess himself, save one leg and foot. It could have been much worse.

Weeks later, and the client was still checking in on them to thank them, and continuing to offer repayment. They continued to turn him down, right up until Parker had caught Eliot the third time playing line cook, on his feet, when he was still supposed to be staying off the mild fracture and crushed nerve that was all the souvenir left of their little mishap.

This time, the former client offered them the use of a family cabin.

A vacation.

-

The reception was shit.

Eliot was almost smug about that. What did Hardison think, all the way up here? … but it took almost no time at all to have Hardison carrying a large receiver dish gingerly through the few inches of snow towards a likely-looking tree (Eliot thought the trees were actually a little too close to the structure for strict fire-and-fall safely), while Parker geared up for a short climb.

Eliot sighed, grabbed a stool from the bar-side of the kitchen island, dragged it around to the stove, and started turning things on. Somewhere there had to be a nice pot and some ½ sheet pans. And he’d brought paper bags to sweat chilies. Pozole sounded like a reasonable dinner option.

It was no secret that Elliot took great pleasure in cooking. The pleasant tap-slide tap-slide rhythm of dicing vegetables, the sizzle of things crisping under the broiler, the visual satisfaction of attaining a uniform toast all the way around as he rotated.

The warmth he felt had as much to do with pride and anticipation of being able to care for his people, as it did the heat of the oven and stove, or the capsaicin in the air.

He had pressed his tortillas back at the bar, and he wouldn’t want to actually cook them until they were almost ready to plate, so once he had that pot at a nice simmer, chicken and hominy and so much chile, there was little to do but wait.

They were genuinely on vacation. No jobs to prepare for. All his weaponry clean. He washed down his cutting boards in the deep farmhouse-style sink. Did up the few extra dishes he’d made. Cleaned the knives.

And then he settled in with a book he’d nearly finished. Anne Leckie. He thought _Parker_ would like this one, actually. The way Breq approached the world… there were some interesting similarities to the way Parker spoke about things sometimes, about social dynamics and gender and things like that.

He’d been on a sci-fi kick, and had just put down _Stranger in a Strange Land_ , frustrated by the focus on antiquated gender normative concerns, feeling deprived of the speculative exo-planet exploration and survivalist stuff he’d been spoiled for by things like The Martian. Hardison had coaxed the explanation out of him, and the next day, _Ancillary Justice_ had sailed over his head and landed on the couch next to him. 

It was a used copy, worn on the corners, but clearly not by Hardison, who almost always preferred digital formats.

Eliot _liked_ physical books though, when he had the luxury of them. He liked the smell of the pages, the feel of the fibers under his fingers. He had a handful in his duffel-- they were planning to be here a week or so this first time, unless something came up to bring them back earlier. It was rare that they took so _much_ uninterrupted time to themselves like this, and even more rare to take it this far away from… potential trouble. 

Now, whether Hardison in particular was going to restrain himself from doing work, that was a different question. But between Eliot and Parker, they were usually fairly able to pull him out of digital space when they wanted. For a while at least. 

-

When they traipsed back in, cold and snow-damp, Eliot was pinching and flipping tortillas on the little griddle he’d found stashed beside the stove.

He laid a raw one down, and turn to look, satisfied with his timing.

They’d shaken off most of the actual snow before coming in, but there were still little bits of stick and leaves in evidence, and mud on the boots they dropped by the door. 

Parker was out of her coat and up the stairs in a flash, but Hardison took a little longer about it. Maybe just because he didn't feel the need to rush, maybe because he was deliberately giving Eliot time to look. Which he did, admiring the long lines of him, the breadth of his back, the way he filled out the cable-knit sweater he’d been wearing under his coat, and the way the bright cream wool sat against his warm skin.

Not that it adequately distracted him when Parker dangled an arm down to snatch a tortilla. He had plenty of time to stop her if he wanted, but that was also because she'd given him plenty of time to stop her if he wanted.

“Did you have a nice time reading?” she asked, from her upside-down position, lower legs invisible on the landing above, body relaxed full-length to be able to reach the plate of warm tortillas, before doing a crunch and pulling herself back up.

“I did.” he answered, amicably. “You might like it too.”

She paused, almost in a seated position, and then dropped full length again, sticking her tortilla in her mouth, and extending an arm to brace herself on the countertop and flip the rest of the way down and right-side up, snagging Eliot’s book with her free hand on the way down, and landing lightly on the linoleum.

Hardison groaned in mock exasperation as he crossed into the sitting area, socks making a slight _shush shush_ sound on the wood boards and carpets.

"All that shimmying up and down 50 foot pines, and you’ve got to get another eight feet in over open flame indoors.”

Eliot looked pointedly at the electric stove top and back at Hardison.

"Okay, well, maybe I don’t need any blond hair in my chicken soup, either."

Parker pointedly adjusted her bun, before also strolling into the living room, inspecting the back cover of her book and otherwise ignoring him.

“Pine needles and bark is more likely,” Elliott said, deftly retrieving a piece from the outside edge of a glowing burner, and then brushing his own clothes down for additional detritus.

“We were hoping for pozole first," Hardison said.

"It will get better the longer it steeps this week."  


"Man, why do you think we were hoping? We do learn some things."

Eliot scowled to cover his smile, and turned away, and flipped another tortilla.

-

Afterwards, after recounting the exploits, the blow by blow of just what Hardison was doing with the satellite dish and what he hoped to get out of it, after they sat and dinner, and then had a beer on the porch while Parker clambered all over it and the roof and the supports, until the snow started coming down hard enough to make them genuinely cold... t hey all curled up.

Eliot took his boot off, pointedly, sat down on one end of the couch and propped the offending foot up on a footrest. Hardison sat on the other end of the couch, angled in way that Eliot was pretty sure was going to end up with his cold feet tucked under Eliot’s thigh or in his lap.

Parker grabbed three throw pillows and an afghan and made herself a nest between them, partially on the couch, partially on the thick rug beneath it.

Hardison with his tablet, Eliot and Parker with Ann Leckie (Eliot having now finished the first one) and Eliot thought. Yeah, okay. Maybe this was a good idea. Maybe it was the best idea anyone had had in a long time. Maybe it didn’t get much better, ever, than this right here.

**Author's Note:**

> Sources for the images I used can be found in this Conveniently Rebloggable tumblr post (which I will add when we come off anon)
> 
> I wish you all a good companion, a nice meal, and a warm place to sleep. <3


End file.
